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AT THE PICKET-LINE 



(^ lEiUtarg ©rama of tl}C ffitbtl War, 
in Ji&e acts 



BY 

JUSTIN ADAMS 

AUTHOR OF " T'RISS ; OR, BEYOND THE ROCKIES," " THE INFERNAL MACHINE,'^ 
"DAWN," "THE SUICIDE CLUB," "THE ENGINEER," "THE 
RAG-PICKER'S CHILD," "THE LIMIT OF 
THE LAW," " DOWN EAST," ETC. ' 



BOSTON 



UO^^)l 




CHARACTERS. C^^ ch^ 

CALEB HOLMES, a wayward son. ^ ^ ^%^^ ' ' 

ALBERT CHERRINGTON, a hero of the Rebellion. 

HARVEY CROSSCOMB, a man of schemes. ' 

SQUIRE HOLMES, rlieumaiic in body, but Roman i?t soul. 

HIRAM LUFKIN, a raw 7-ecruit in love and war. 

JERRY SLATER, a carnp-follower. 

SERGEANT O'STOUT, U. S. A. 

CAPT. HARFORD, afterwards Colonel, U. S. A. 

DUMPY, a soldier. 

DETECTIVE. 

SILVY HOLMES, sister, daughter, and sweetheart— faithful in all. 

LEONORA HARFORD, a Union spy. 

SAL, a campfollower. 




Copyright, 1893, by Walter H. Baker & Co. 



A II Rights Reserved. 



Notice. -The author of "At the Picket Line " reserves the right to perform the 
play m any part of the United States. This publication is for the benefit of such mana- 
gers or actors as may have been duly authorized by him to produce the drama. All other 
persons are hereby notified that any production of this play without due authority will 
be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. 

To Amateurs. —The above notice does not apply to amateur dramatic clubs, which 
may perform the play without express permission. 



SCENE PLOT. 

Act I. Landscape in 4. Rustic fence or stone wall in 3, with opening c. Farm-house, 
L. 2 E. ; barn, k. ; stump, l. ; saw and saw-horse with beam on it, r. General air of 
neglect and dilapidation. 

Act II. Scene i. Landscape in 4, with set rock r. and l. 3 e. Scene ii. Lane or 
street in i. Scene hi. Tent or officer's headquarters in 3, backed by landscape '; 
flags, camp-stools, etc. 

Act III. Scene i. Rocky pass in 4, with run in 3. Scene ii. Dark wood in i. 
Scene hi. Same as Scene i, with dead bodies and debris. 

Act IV. Union camp in 4. " A " tent down r. ; tripod and fire up l. ; mossy bank 
down L. 

Act V. Kitchen in 3. Door l. f. ; window R. f; fireplace R. Table and chairs l. 
Scene backed by landscape in 4. 



PROPERTIES. 

Act I. Saw, saw-horse, and log. Cane for Squire. Grease for saw. 

Act II. Piece of string for Al. Guns for Dumpy and Hiram. Revolver (to fire), paper 
and pencil for O' Stout. Sword for Captain. 

Act III. Two pistols for Leonora. Gun for Caleb (to fire). Pocket-book for dying 
soldier. Knife for Sal. 

Act IV. Pipe and tobacco for O'Stout. Blanket to toss Hiram in. Large bottle, and 
small one for Caleb. 

Act V. Armful of firewood for Squire. Cane for Squire. Ring for Cherrington. 



COSTUMES. 

Modern and military. Changes as indicated. 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 



ACT I. 

Scene. — Landscape in 4. Rustic fence or stone wall in 3, with 
opening c. Farm-house^ L. 2E. ; barn,K.-^ stump, \..\ saw and 
saw-horse, with log, R. ; getter al air of neglect a?id dilapidation. 

{Enter Silvy, supporting Squire, r. u. e.) 

SiLVY. Easy ! Lean on me, pa. Here we are. {She seats him 
on stump, L.) There ! How does it feel now ? 

Squire. Not much better, Silvy ; perhaps it will limber up a bit 
after IVe rested awhile. Come, sit down, child ; you must be tired 
yourself. 

Silvy. Not a bit of it. Don't you know IVe got my gate post 
to finish ? 

Squire. No, Silvy, you must not ; you are not accustomed 
to hard work, and I suffer almost as much from seeing you overtax 
yourself as I do from this confounded rheumatism. 

Silvy. Overtax myself! Why, pa, it makes me strong, and 
what we need about the place now is muscle. Just watch me. 
{Crosses to saw, r.) 

Squire. She's the best darter that ever lived. What would I 
do without her. Be careful, Silvy, and don't cut yourself. 

Silvy. I guess this saw needs a little grease. Yes, and it 
needs resetting, too — its teeth are looking ten different ways for 
Sunday. V\\ try a little grease. {Exit into house. ^ 

Squire. It's time Hiram was along with another load of hay. 

{Enter Hiram, r. u. e.) 

Hiram. Why, I thought I heerd Silvy's voice singing out as 
I came up the road. Wonder where she's gone to. Can't be 
milkin', 'cos there hain't nothin' on the farm to milk 'cept milkweed, 
and there's plenty o' that now since the Squire's been tuck with 
rheumatiz. Hullo ! somebody's been a sawin' for 'em. Wonder 
who 'twas. There ain't no men folks here but the Squire, and he's 
too lame. Wonder if Silvy's been a tryin' of it. 

Squire. Is that you, Hiram ? 



O AT THE PICKET LINE. 

Hiram. It's me, Squire ; I came up tew — tew — 

Squire. You come to see Silvy, didn't you ? 

Hiram. Well, partly, and I kinder wanted to have a talk with 
you, tew. You see, Squire, my ma and Marthy Ellen they're 
kinder 'posed to the idea of my workin' for you for nothing, and 
leaving father to do all the work to home 'cept the chores. 

Squire. Well, Hiram, Til pay you just as soon as I can. You 
know how tight run I am since this consarned rheumatiz took 
hold on me. I promised you ten dollars if you'd do my hay in' for 
me, and I calkerlate to be able to pay you. 

Hiram. Yes, but ma says if you'd halve it — give me five now, 
and t'other five when the rest on it's in — why 'twould kinder — 
kinder — 

Squire. Well, Hiram, I can't do it. Money's been so scarce, 
'specially since the war broke out. If my boy Caleb was only here 
to help me — 

Hiram. Do you s'pose he's gone to the war ? 

Squire. I don't know, Hiram. I shouldn't be s'prised. He 
was always wild as a two-year-old, you know; in fact, his wildness 
caused our fallin' out. That's the reason we split. 

Hiram. That Avas a bad day for you. Squire. 

Squire. No, it warn't ; not half as bad as the day Al Cher- 
rington left me. He was more a son to me than my own. But I 
wouldn't forgive Caleb if he crawled to me on his hands and knees. 
That's the kind of a father I am. 

Silvy {inside). Pa ! where's the grease ? 

Squire. There, do you hear that ? That's all I live for. If 
'twan't for her, I'd just as lieve go. 

Hiram. You're not the only one, Squire, that's living for her 
sake. I kinder hanker that way myself. 

Silvy {i7iside). Pa ! where's the grease ? 

Squire. What grease, Silvy ? 

Silvy. The grease for the saw. 

Squire. In the pantry on the shelf. Well, Hiram, if you can 
wait a day or so, mebbe by that time I can give you the money. 
Neighbor Crosscomb's gone down to Boston on business, and I 
asked him to call on my brother-in-law and see if he'd loan me 
some money. We haven't been friends since I married his sister 
thirty years ago, and he may refuse ; but if you can't wait till then 
— why, we'll have to stop hayin'. 

Hiram. Well, Squire, it all depends on Silvy. 

Squire. How's that. Hi. 

Hiram. Well, if she'll only say one word. Squire, I'll do all the 
hayin' for both of you. 

Squire. O ho ! one word, eh ? Well, mebbe you'd better ask 
her to speak that word. Silvy ! 

Silvy. Well ! 

Hiram. Not now. Squire. 

Squire. Why not ? 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 7 

Hiram. 'Cos I feel kinder skeered — kinder like puttin' it off. 

Squire {aside). I hope you will feel like puttin' it off till the 
hayin's done. 

SiLVY {inside). What did you want, pa ? 

Squire. Did you find the grease 1 

SiLVY {inside). Yes ; but it was all one cake. 

Hiram {aside). Just like me. 

SiLVY {inside). But it's soft now. 

Squire. Just like you, too, Hiram. 

SiLVY {eiiterins;) . It's all right now. Hullo, Hi! 

Hiram. Hullo, Silvy. Kinder looks as though we were gomg 
to have a spell o' weather. 

Silvy. Shouldn't be s'prised, Hi. 

Squire {aside). Guess Pll go in and give that word a chance. 
Hiram, I wish you'd hurry that word up a bit. That cloud out 
there looks pesky threatnin' for hay. {Exit into house.) 

Silvy {struggling with saw). It just seems to me as though 
this saw's wood, and the wood's iron. I don't see how the men 
folks do this, unless it's the beer they drink that helps 'em. 

Hiram. Let me help you, Silvy. 

Silvy. No, I won't. I said I'd make this gate post myself, and 
I'll do it if I raise that blister as big as a hen's Qgg. 

Hiram. You never let me do anything for you, Silvy. 

Silvy. 'Cos you never want to unless you git paid for it. I 
heard you talking to pa, and I know what you were talking about, 

too. 

Hiram. Did you? Well, Silvy, I know I don't 'mount to much, 
but if you'll just say one little word, I'll jump right over the moon 
for you. 

Silvy. Will you? Well, you just wait till the moon's full, and 
I'll give you a trial. 

Hiram. Couldn't you say it now, Silvy? 

Silvy. Yes, I will, and I'll spell it, too, g-i-t o-u-t — git out. 

Hiram. Well, that ain't zactly the word! expected, so I guess 
I'll wait till the moon's full. {Exit.) 

Silvy. That's number five Tve said that to. The other four 
went to the war, but he won't. He's too much of a coward. I 
wonder if pa's lying down. I must fix his bed for him. 

{Exit, and enter Caleb, l. u. e.) 

Caleb. Poor little sister, what a life of sacrifice is hers, and 
what a contrast to mine. Yet, vagabond as I am, the memory of 
her love often calls me back to honor and to manhood. Shall I 
make myself known to her? Perhaps I'd better not, for were she to 
receive me coldly, I'd carry away more bitter memories than ever. 
Well, I can help her a trifle at least. {Saws wood; enter Silvy.) 

Silvy. Here ! you needn't think you're going to get paid for that. 

Caleb {aside). The same sw^eet voice. 

Silvy. You'd better make tracks out o' here. My father keeps 
a gun loaded for tramps. 



8 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

Caleb {aside). I cannot resist. {Aloud.) Silvy ! 

SiLVY. Is it Caleb? Yes, Caleb — my brother. 

Caleb. Not too loud, Silvy, father may hear us. 

Silvy. No, Caleb, father's asleep. But why not let him hear us 1 
Why not come to him and ask forgiveness ? 

Caleb. Forgiveness for what? What have I done? Must I 
crawl when an old man is testy, even tho' he is my father ? I but 
asserted my rights in our quarrel two years ago. Must I play sec- 
ond fiddle to a waif he chose to foster as his son, and have a 
foundling held up before me as a model ? 

Silvy. Don't, Caleb, don't say that^of poor Al. 

Caleb. Well, little sister, you are right in that. It was no fault 
of Al's, and if left alone by father 1 could have loved Albert as a 
brother. 

Silvy. Could you, Caleb — I am so glad. 

Caleb. Are you? And why? 

Silvy. . Because — because some day he may be your brother. 

Caleb. Oho ! Well, little sister, if this hand were mine to be- 
stow, I truly think I could not give it to a better man. 

Silvy. But you have not told me of yourself. 

Caleb. Well, there is little to tell. You know my roving dis- 
position ; it has led me over a good part of the world these past two 
years. 

Silvy. I hope it has not led you into evil. 

Caleb. I cannot lay claim to being a saint, but this I can say — 
I have used the world much better than the world has used me. 

Squire {inside). Silvy — is that Mr. Crosscomb? 

Silvy. No, pa, it's — {Qmj^v, interposes) not Mr. Crosscomb. 

Caleb. I must go. I will remain in the neighborhood a few 
days, and see vou again. 

Silvy. Caleb, do let me tell him you're here. 

Caleb. No; not a word. 

Silvy. Let me give him a hint. 

Caleb. No, Silvy, you must not, but this you may do : you may 
speak of me often to him, tell him what a help I would be in his in- 
firmity, and perhaps he may relent. Now, darling, good-by. {Kisses 
her a?id exit.) 

Silvy. Poor brother, he does not know that pa has forbidden 
me to even mention his name. 

{Enter Crosscomb, l. u. e.) 

Crosscomb. How do, Silvy. 

Silvy. Oh, is it you, Mr. Crosscomb? 

Crosscomb. Yes, Silvy, just from Boston. Ain't you glad to 
see me? 

Silvy. Oh, yes, I'm awful glad. Pa's in the sitting-room. 
{Aside.) Hateful old thing, 

Crosscomb. Where be you going, Silvy? 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 9 

SiLVY. Pm going to lock up the hen-house. {Exit r. i e.) 

Crosscomb. That's a he, for there are no hens there to need 
locking up. She's avoiding me, the little minx, but it won't be for 
long — it won't be for long. {Enter Albert Cherrington, l. u. 
E.) What do I see .-* Is that you, Cherrington ? 

Albert. Why, Mr. Crosscomb, how are you ^. You look 
younger than you did three years ago. 

Crosscomb. I feel it, too. But what brings you here ? 

Albert. Well, I had a few days to myself, so I thought I'd 
look up Mr. Holmes. He was very kind to me as a lad, you 
know. Besides, I want to acquaint him with a piece of good 
news. 

Crosscomb. Good news is always welcome. 

Albert. I imagine this will be to him. As I came through 
Boston I heard that his brother-in-law, Mr. Worthington, died 
intestate, and they are looking for the heirs. 

Crosscomb {aside). This young hound knows it then, and 
may ruin all. I must see the Squire first and prepare the way. 
{Aloud.) It must be a mistake, for I just came from Boston and 
left Mr. Worthington in good health. 

Albert. 'Twas merely a rumor. I'm sorry, however, it isn't 
true. 

Crosscomb. Well, I came to see the Squire too, and as mine's 
business and yours is pleasure, you don't mind giving me first turn, 
I dare say. 

Albert. Certainly not. You go in, and I'll take a stroll 
around. Doesn't look much like farming, this, from the looks of 
the yard. 

Crosscomb. Melvin Holmes always was a man for muck — 
specially in the wrong place. Muck's money in the right place, 
but that's not at a man's door. Well, take your stroll, Cherring- 
ton, mebbe we'll meet again afore I go. {Exit in house.) 

Albert. What can it mean, this aspect of poverty, where 
evervthing looks so neglected and bare ? {Efiter Silw, r. i e.) 
What, Silvy ! 

SiLVY. What, Albert is it you? {Embrace.) Don't kiss me, 
some one may be looking. 

Albert. Let them look and envy me. {Kisses her.) Why, 
Silvy, what a woman you've grown to be.^ How you have changed. 

Silvy. So has everything else since you went away. 

Albert I see they have, and I fear you are the only one that's 
changed for the better. Tell me — what is the matter ? Where 
are all the farm-hands ? 

Silvy. All gone. We've given up keeping men, and it's a good 
thing, too. 'Twould be a shame to keep a lot of men about the 
place when pa's got a grown-up girl. 

Albert. But who does the milking and so forth ? 

Silvy. I do — at least, I shall. We're not keeping cows now. 
Oh, I love to work. It's so much nicer than going to school. 



lO AT THE PICKET LINE. 

Albert. Silvy, you can't cheat me. YouVe going to cry. 

SiLVY. Tm not. It's because I pinched myself with that saw. 

Albert. What were you doing with that saw ? 

Silvy. I was making a new gate post. Don't look at me in 
that way, or I shall cry. 

Albert. Silvy, I will look at you. I want you to answer me 
truthfully. Your father is my best friend. To him I owe every- 
thing, for he reared me as his own son, and if he is in trouble, I 
claim the right to know of it, and share it with him. Why didn't 
you mention this in your letters ? 

Silvy. I was waiting for things to mend. Poor father! I 
don't understand it. As soon as you left, everything seemed to go 
upside down. Pa was taken sick, the harvest was the worst ever 
known, and we had to sell all the stock for a song. 

Albert. Good Heavens ! this means ruin. But v/here is your 
brother Caleb ? 

Silvy, He was here a few moments since. Don't let pa hear 
his name. They quarrelled two years ago, and pa won't allow his 
name mentioned in the house. 

Albert. Silvy, do you know why I have come here to-day? 

Silvy. No — why ? 

Albert. To ask your father if he'll let me be his son in- 
deed. He'll want one now that Caleb has gone. I have done 
well these three years in New York, and I think I could be 
not only a good husband to you, but a great help to him. 

Silvy. And if he says yes, I suppose you'll marry me, whether 
I like it or not. 

Albert. Exactly ! You have no voice in the matter whatever. 
If he says yes, I shall go to Linfield to-morrow, purchase a ring, 
and shackle your little hand with it, as you long ago shackled my 
heart. 

Silvy. Well, I suppose Fll have to put up with it. 

Albert. And now, Silvy, which way did Caleb go ? 

Silvy. Down the road towards Holden. 

Albert. Let us see if we can overtake him ; perhaps by the 
time we return Mr. Crosscomb will have finished his business with 
your father and left him at liberty to decide our little matter. 

Silvy. Little matter ! I guess you'll find it'll be matter enough 
to keep your hands full. 

{Exit both R. u. e. ; enter Squire and Crosscomb, l.) 

Squire. Now, neighbor, what news? 

Crosscomb. Well, Squire, I've been to Boston for the first an 
last time. Never go to Boston. You'll drop more money there in 
a week than you'll git back out of a good crop in a bad year. 

Squire. Did you see the old man? There, you needn't tell me 
what he said. I know by your looks. 

Crosscomb. Well, I did it all for the best. Squire. When I first 
struck there I heard that he was dead, but it wasn't so, Squire — it 
wasn't so. * 



AT THE PICKET LINE. II 

Squire. Even if he was, I don't suppose it would benefit me. 

CrosscOxMB. But it might your children, for he was their uncle, 
and had none of his own. But no such good luck. There are a 
great many people by the name of Worthington. I looked him up. 
I spent half a dollar in finding him, which I did in a rotten old office 
on a rotten old wharf that you wouldn't put a pig in. I put the 
case to him just as if it was my own. " Old gentleman,''' says I, 
" there's honest Squire Holmes that married your sister, and is 
father to your own niece and nephew, that's come down to the 
bottom through sickness and the like of that, and here's you rollin' 
in your thousands that might pay off his honest debts and set him 
a-going agin with one stroke of your pen." 

Squire. I wish you'd told him that if 'twan't for Silvy's sake, 
afore I'd go beggin' of him, I'd see him in Jericho. 

Crosscomb. " Well," says he, " you tell Melvin Holmes that 
when he married my sister agin my will, he knew what to expect. 
Tell him," and these were his very words. Squire, " tell him to go 
to the devil, and here's five cents to pay the toll." 

Squire. Well, I suppose it's all up now. That was the last 
chance I hoped for to lift your mortgage. I haven't forgotten that 
the last quarter's interest falls due to-day, and that I'm three months 
in arrears, so I s'pose there's nothing left for me to do but hand you 
the keys of the house and go. 

Crosscomb. Why, I haven't foreclosed yet, and if I had, I 
wouldn't turn you out as if the house was afire. Where could you go ? 

Squire. I'll find the lee of a haystack somewhere for me and 
Silvy. I'll carry away just my stick, the clothes I stand in and the 
girl. She's mine, and no mortgage can touch her. 

Crosscomb. Come, come, Squire, hear me through. 'Tis true 
I can't afford to go without money or land. These war times are 
cruel hard. I can't, but I will. 

Squire. What ! you will ? 

Crosscomb. I can't afford to, but I will — that's what I say. I'll 
take Silvy instead of both of 'em. 

Squire. You'll take Silvy? You'll take my little girl? 

Crosscomb. Look here, neighbor ; perhaps it may look odd, 
but I'd rather have Silvy for a wife without a cent than any other girl 
with a thousand dollars. It may seem like a fool's whim, but it's 
mine. I've watched her grow up from the cradle, and ever since 
she's been knee high to a grasshopper I've said to myself — that's 
the gal for me. 

Squire. Bless my soul alive ! Does the girl know? 

Crosscomb. Wal, a gal isn't blind to a chap's sweetness on 
her, I suppose. 

Squire. Why, man, you're old enough to be her father. 

Crosscomb. Oh, no ! not so bad as that. A man's as old as 
he feels, and I'm one of the wiry ones. I'm tolerably well off, and 
could afford to keep a ^v'ife. Besides, it's bad for a gal to be mar- 
ried to a young tom-fool that don't know his own mind. I know 
mine. I love Silvy, and you'd better keep the land. 



12 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

Squire. She's somewhere about the place. We'll see what she 
says to it. (^Calls.) Silvy! 

Crosscomb. I have your consent then? 
Squire. It all depends on Silvy. 

{Eftier Silvy ^w^/ Albert, r. u. e.) 

Silvy. Here I am, pa. Did you call? 

Albert. Squire, Pm glad to see you. 

Squire. Why, Albert, is it you? 

Albert. Yes, IVe come back again like a bad penny. I should 
have come straight to you, but as Mr. Crosscomb wanted to see you 
first, I've told Silvy what I came to tell you, and she has promised 
to become my wife, if you will accept me as a son. 

Squire. I'm afraid it can't be. 

Albert. Can't be, and why? 

Crosscomb {coughs). V\\ tell you why it can't be. Squire 
Holmes has just promised Silvy to another. Never mind who. 

Albert. Silvy, do you understand? 

Crosscomb. Young man, this is business, not sweet-hearting — 
she don't understand, but I do. She's got to save her father from 
ruination like a dutiful daughter, and she won't do it by marrying 
a struggling young clerk that's got to make his way in the world. 

Albert. Squire, I have asked Silvy and she has said yes, so 
who's the other man? I have a right to know, and from you. 

Crosscomb. It's enough for you to know, Mr. Cherrington, that 
Silvy will know her duty, and the Squire will keep his word. 

Albert. And has it come to this — that Silvy is to be sold like 
the cattle? By Heaven, it shall not be ! 

Crosscomb. It's hard lines for you, Cherrington, but if Silvy 
marries you, the Squire must lose this farm, that's mortgaged stick 
and stone over head and ears. No, no ! Silvy must marry money, 
and the Squire must keep the land. 

Albert. A mortgage, eh ? Everything is all right on that while 
the interest is paid. How much is due on that? 

Squire. Five hundred dollars and I can no more pay it than — 

Albert. But I can, and twice that sum if needed. What's 
mine, Squire, is yours. You shall have the money and redeem the 
land. 

Crosscomb. Too late ! too late ! He has given his word. 

Silvy. But I haven't, and as I am to be bid for, I'll choose my 
purchaser. I don't know who the other is, and I don't want to 
know, but I'm going to marry Albert. Firstly, for the land and 
money, but mostly because I love him. 

CURTAIN. 



SECOND PICTURE. 
Crosscomb {shaking hands with Albert) . I wish you joy, sir. 



AT THE PICKET LINE. IJ 

ACT II. 

Scene i. — Landscape in 4, with set rocks R. and l. 3 e. 

{Enter Crosscomb, r. u. e.) 

Crosscomb. Ah, these scamps of soldiers ! Thieves and rascals 
they are ! They call it foraging, stealing an honest man's corn. 
But they leave to-morrow for the South, and my good riddance 
goes with them. Humph! Here comes young Cherrington, happy 
as a lark. How nice I deceived them ! If they only knew the 
truth, that old Worthington is dead, and Silvy is an heiress, my 
chances would be small. Hang that young meddler, to turn up 
just-at the wrong time ! But never mind, the game's not up yet. 
He'll not marry her for a while, and when he returns to New York, 
I'll manage to keep him there if I have to dig his grave myself, the 
young puppy! {Enter Albert, l. u. e.) Ah, Mr. Cherrington, 
you look as bright as a' new dollar ! 

Albert. I feel so, too, and have good cause. I was just stand- 
ing on the top of the hill watching the new regiment drill, and I 
thought what a difference the future held for us. They, poor fel- 
lows, leave for the South to-morrow, many of them going to their 
death, while I — I am going to my life. 

Crosscomb. To your life ? 

Albert. Yes, to Silvy ; she's my life. 

Crosscomb. Humph! You're taking chances same as they are. 
Matrimony at its best resembles a battlefield. It's a toss-up which 
side is victorious. Only instead of bullets and shells, you'll use 
boot-jacks and frying-pans. 

Albert. Nonsense, Mr. Crosscomb ! Silvy and I will use arbi- 
tration instead of either. But I'm glad I found you, for I wanted 
a word with you. 

Crosscomb. Well, what's the word? 

Albert. Why, it's this. I am to be married in a fortnight. 
Now you were the first to wish us joy, and I thought — perhaps — 
well, I know your time is precious, but I want you to spare a morn- 
ing for once and be best man. 

Crosscomb. What, I ? 

Albert. If you wouldn't mind. I can't send to New York, and 
all the fellows I know about here have gone to the war. Besides, 
you've been such a friend to Silvy and her father, that I'd rather 
have you than any other man. Come, say yes. 

Crosscomb. Well then, I will. 
^ Albert {shaking his hand). I knew you would, and some day 
V\\ do as mucli for you. Oh, I forgot, a best man must be a bach- 
elor. I say, Crosscomb, why don't you follow my example and 
get a Silvy of your own? 



1,4 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

Crosscomb. Perhaps I will some day. So youVe doing well 
there in the city, eh? Getting to be a rich man, are you? 

Albert. Well, I've got my foot on the ladder. Fancy my com- 
ing back as I did, just in the nick of time. It looks like Provi- 
dence, doesn't it? 1 wonder who the scoundrel was that wanted 
to buy my Silvy, I don't blame you for not mentioning his name, 
but I'd like you to tell him when you see him, before he tries to 
buy a girl at market again, to ask her if she wants to be sold. 
The cold-blooded brute ! It makes my blood boil ! For his own 
good, I hope I never shall learn his name, for I don't want to be 
bothered with having to lather a cur. But I'm off now to Linfield, 
and as I'm on " shanks' mare" I mustn't play by the wayside. 

Crosscomb. To Linfield? On business.?' 

Albert. Yes, and important business, too. I'm going to buy a 
ring. 

Crosscomb. A rincj ? 

Albert. Yes, the ring. Hullo ! here she comes now with the 
Squire. Just in time to measure her finger. 

j^ {Enter Silvy ««^ Squire, r. u. e.) 

Squire. A1, your legs are younger thas mine. Would you 
mind chasing them cows out of that pasture ? 

Silvy. Yes, we're poor enough now, and can't afford to pasture 
other people's critters. 

Crosscomb. Why, whose cows are they. Squire? I don't seem 
to recognize 'em ! 

Squire. Well, they're not mine, for it's a long day since my 
cows gave milk. 

Albert. Why, they must be yours. Squire. The bars are all 
up. How could they get in ? 

Crosscomb {aside). I see it all. That young spendthrift 
bought them cows himself. 

Albert. Why, Silvy, fancy a farmer's daughter not knowing her 
father's cows a hundred yards away. 

Silvy. A1. don't joke about them. 

Albert. Heaven forbid ! Cows are much too serious things to 
joke about. 

Silvy. A1 Cherrington, you bought those cows yourself. 

Albert. Take care, little girl, if you wrinkle your brows like 
that the cows may take fright, spread their wings, and fly away 
over the moon. You mind the milking, and never mind how 
things come. {Crosses.) 

Squire. Don't— don't be too good to us all. Don't ask me 
to thank you. 

Albert. I'll only ask you never to mention it again. But I 
want Silvy to receipt the bill. 

Silvy. How ? 

Albert, {kisses her). Thus! 

Squire {to Crosscomb). Come, neighbor, that receipt don't 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 1 5 

need witnessing. Why, whafs the matter ? Come and take a 
look at the new live-stock. 

Crosscomb. No, Tm very busy this morning. Good-day. 
(ExU, R. I E.) 

Squire. Why, what's got into him? Mebbe it's 'cos he's 
prided himself on having the best cattle around here, and he's 
afraid mine '11 beat 'em. Ha ! ha ! ha ! He's jealous of my cattle ! 
{Aside.) It's well they don't know I mean two-legged cattle, and 
that it's themselves he's jealous of. {Exit, l. i e.) 

Albert. Now, Silvy, let me see your finger. No, not that 
one — the third of the left hand. 

Silvy. What do you want of it ? 

Albert. Only its measurement. {Measures with string.) 
Now, then, I'm off to Linfield to buy that ring. I'm in a fearful 
hurry to shackle you. Good-by ! I'll be back in twenty minutes. 
{Exit, R. 2 e.) 

Silvy. Go the short cut behind the church. I'll wait for you 
on the hill. {Exit, l. u. e.) 

■ • '" {Enter Ca.'LEB, from rock, r.) 

Caleb. I've given 'em the slip again. If I can only keep shady 
til] to-morrow, I'm all right. They'll leave for the South without 
me, and I'll be two hundred dollars in pocket. I must get rid of 
this uniform and lay low. By Jove ! here they come again ! I 
must evaporate. {Hides.) ,..■■-- 

{Enter O'Stout, Hiram, and Dumpy, r. u. e.) 

O'Stout. Halt ! Right face ! Forward march ! {March 
down.) Halt I Was it this way, Dumpy? 

Dumpy. He was coming this way, sir, when I lost sight of him. 

Hiram. What kind of a looking chap was he? 

Dumpy. A tall, gawky-looking fellow. 

O'Stout. That doesn't answer the description. There's noth- 
ing said about his being tall, and, begorra, he's no gawk, for he 
knew enough to light out when he got the money. 

Hiram. Was there anything said about his being short? 

O'Stout. Divil a word was said aither way. Here, Dumpy, 
you look that way and I'll look this way. {They go np and Hiram 
practises ina7iual of arms .) Look at that bogtrotter ! I'll scare the 
divil within an inch of his life ! {Fires revolver ; Hiram drops 
gun a7id runs off, r. i e.) After him, Dumpy, and bring him 
back. {Exit Dumpy.) There's bravery for you ; the war won't 
last long if they're all like that fellow. {Re-enter Dumpy and 
Hiram.) 

Hiram. Is the battle over ? 

O'Stout. Where the divil were you running to? 

Hiram. I was practising a retreat. 



l6 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

O'Stout. a fine soldier you'll make ! 

Hiram. Well, I didn't 'list to be shot at. 

O'Stout. What did you enlist for.? 

Hiram. For thirteen dollars a month and found. 

O'Stout. And a nice time they'll have finding you. 

Hiram. I had another reason, tew. 

O'Stout. What is it ? 

Hiram. Well, I was kinder sweet on a gal — 

O'Stout. And she shook you ? 

Hiram. No, I shook her. 

O'Stout. What for ? 

Hiram. 'Cos she was sweet on another feller. 

O'Stout. What did you enlist for, Dumpy? 

Dumpy. I want to see the country. 

O'Stout. And what do you think I enlisted for ? 

Hiram. To get a pension. 

O'Stout. No ! Because I'm patriotic. 

Hiram. Most Pats are riotic. 

O'Stout. Come, now, let yez learn a thing or two. Attention ! 
Eyes right ! 

Hiram a7id Dumpy. My eyes are all right. 

O'Stout. Attention ! Carry humps ! 

Hiram. Who's she ? 

O'Stout. Who's who? 

Hiram. Carrie Humps. 

O'Stout. Attention! Right shoulder shift arms! {They ex- 
change gims.) What are you doin'? 

Both. Shifting arms. 

O'Stout. I'll shift yez into the guard-house ! Attention ! Pre- 
sent arms ! 

Both. Take 'em. 

O'Stout. What the divil are you doing now? 

Both. Presenting arms. 

O'Stout. I'll present yez wid the toe of my boot ! Attention ! 
Rest arms ! {They lie dowfi.) And what do you call that? 

Both. Resting arms. 

O'Stout. Get up out of that ! Bedad, I'll have a nice job 
getting yez ready for service. Now let yez try the song of the 
regiment. {Song and chorus introduced.^ Here ! Who's that 
waving a flag of truce on that hill ? 

Hiram. That's Silvy. 

O'Stout. And who's Silvy? 

Hiram. The gal I left behind me. 

O'Stout. Well, we must be looking up our bounty-jumper. 
Here, Hiram, you're well acquainted with the lay of the land about 
here, — you go that way, and we'll go this. 

Hiram. If I find him, can I try a shot at him? 

O'Stout. No; if you find him, march him to headquarters. 
Now, Dumpy, attention ! Left face ! Forward march ! 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 1 7 



{^Exeunt O'Stout and Dumpy, l. 2 e., and Hiram, r. u. e. ; 
Enter Albert, r. i e.) 

Albert. Hullo ! There's a squad out searching for somebody. 
It must be a deserter. 

{Ente?- Caleb.) 

Caleb. Hullo, Al, is that you? 

Albert. Caleb, as I'm a sinner ! 

Caleb. Yes ; where's Silvy ? 

Albert. She's waiting on the hill for me. But what are you 
doing in that coat? 

Caleb. Oh, that's Uncle Sam's. I'm going to return it with 
my compliments. 

Albert. Why, do you belong to this recruiting regiment ? 

Caleb. I did ; but I've taken French leave. 

Albert. What do you mean? 

Caleb. I've discharged myself. This is no time for detail. A 
gentleman was drafted, and hired me as substitute. I enlisted, 
pocketed the two hundred, and skipped. 

Albert. You're a deserter, — a bounty-jumper ! 

Caleb. Exactly ; those are the technical terms. 

Albert. And do you think you are acting honorably? 

Caleb. Yes, honorably, but not sentimentally. I'd put on a 
Confederate uniform to-morrow for the same price. What to me 
is patriotism ! Merely a word which incites boys to risk their 
lives for others' gain, while those fellows in Washington pull their 
political wires and rake in the shekels over the dead soldier's body, 
and the shrewd stay-at-home cries, " Bravo ! " and out of the very 
nation's life-blood grabs a fortune at which posterity will point and 
cry, " Behold the self-made man ! " 

Albert. Well, Caleb, this is no time to argue politics. Here, 
drop this uniform behind these rocks. They'll scarcely look for 
them there. How comes it you haven't the regulation pants? 

Caleb. Shortage in supplies. Uncle Sam begins to feel the 
drain, and while some patriotic merchant haggles to get double the 
price, the poor soldier must go without his pants. 

Albert. Here, take my coat and hat. You'll be less conspic- 
uous. 

Caleb. Thanks, old fellow. I'll repay this service some day. 

Albert. Now what do you propose doing ? Going to your father ? 

Caleb. Not much. Two years ago he turned me adrift and 
left me to shift for myself. The row was all on your account, Al, 
but I don't blame you ; I blame him for his pig-headed ideas about 
a son's duty to a father. He never gave me half a chance. 

Albert. And how have you fared since? 

Caleb. Badly. I've tried everything under the sun but bank 
robbing, and I never had a good chance to try that. I'm always 



1 8 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

getting into a scrape, and it's generally through a woman or a horse. 
I always get the blame for others' blunders. If I was on Crusoe's 
island, I'd be in somebody else's scrape. If ever I'm hanged it will 
be in somebody else's shoes. I can't drink a glass of beer but it 
makes somebody else drunk ; and if I went to this war I'd be hit 
with somebody else's bullet, and I'll bet a new hat St. Peter will 
mistake me, and throw me into somebody else's fire. 

Albert. Well, Caleb, I must try and do something for you. 
Now listen. Loitering here is dangerous. Go straight to the hotel 
at Holden. Register there as John Smith, and Silvy and I will 
call on you to-night. 

Caleb. A1, you're a brick. I'll follow your advice. You're 
only my foster brother now, but if what I hear is true, as Silvy's 
husband you'll be my brother indeed. I know you'll be good to 
her, Al. She's the best little girl in the world, and you're the best 
fellow. You're worthy of each other, and may God bless you both. 
(^Exit R. I E.) 

Albert. Poor Caleb ! If I can only patch up that quarrel, it 
will be the happiest moment of my life. 

{Enter O'Stout and Dumpy, l. 2 e.) 

O'Stout. Halt, ye divil ye, halt! Surround him, Dumpy! 
Ah, ye blackguard, it's here ye are after keeping us trudging about 
in the boiling sun. (Albert tm'ns away?) Aisy now — bedad, 
you'll not get away as aisy as you think. 

Albert. Why, whom do you take me for? 

O'Stout. Take you for — for private Caleb Holmes, to be sure ; 
and it strikes me you're rightly named, for you seem to like homes 
better than tents, 

Albert {aside). Worse and worse! Cale has enlisted under 
his own name. I must go with them ; it will give him more time to 
escape. 

Dumpy. Here's his uniform, sergeant ; I found it hidden there 
in the bushes. 

O'Stout. Aha! Look at that now. I knew it was him. You 
couldn't decave me, if you tuk off your shirt. Come, right face ! 
(Albert turns l.) Oho ! by me soul, you're a poltroon. It's 
plain to see you were never under my drilling orders. Round the 
other way. Now then — forward march. {All exeunt, R. 2 e.) 



Scene II. — Lajie or street in i. 

{Enter O'Stout, Albert and Dumpy, r. i e.) 

Albert. One moment, myfriend ! 

O'Stout. Halt ! Front face ! 

Albert. Now, Mr. — what is your name, please? 

O'Stout. My name is O'Stout, sir — Sergeant O'Stout. 



AT THE PICKET LINE. I9 

Albert. Well, Mr. O'Stout — 

O^Stout. I said I was a sergeant ! 

Albert. Indeed, I congratulate you. Well, Mr. — 

O'Stout. Do you want to exasperate me ? I said I was a ser- 
geant, and if you call me out of my title again, it'll go hard wid 
you . 

Albert. Oh, you wish me to call you sergeant? Well, Ser- 
geant, this mistake will inconvenience me a great deal. There's a 
young lady awaiting my coming. 

O'Stout. And as the regiment leaves to-morrow she may be an 
old ladv before you come. 

Albert. Well, Mr. O'Stout — ■ 

O'Stout. I said I was a sergeant. 

Albert. Excuse me — well, Corporal — 

O'Stout. Sergeant ! 

Albert. Well, Colonel! (O'Stout //^^^^^) , if I prove that I 
am not Caleb Holmes, will vou release me? 

O'Stout. Well, I'll consider it, but v/here's the proofs? 

Albert {aside) . Confound it ! All my letters and papers are 
in my coat. The Squire must not know of this, or he'll never 
forgive Cale. 

O'Stout. Have you any friends who could swear to your 
identity ? 

Albert. I have, but they are all in New York. 

O'Stout. And before they could get here, we'll be in Dixie's 
land. 

Albert. Stay, — I have a friend — Mr. Crosscomb — a respect- 
able farmer. May I write him a short note. Corporal ? 

O'Stout. Sergeant ! 

Albert. General. {O^Stovt Jlattered.) May I write him a 
short note? 

O'Stout. You may write him a dozen ; but tell him to hurry 
up. {Gives him pencil and paper.) Dumpy, left face ! Bend 
your back. Now write. 

Albert {writing on Dumpy's back). "Dear Crosscomb: A 
blundering Irish soldier" — 

O'Stout. Here ! here ! Cross that out, or I'll not lave yo'i 
send it. 

Albert. I beg pardon. " A distinguished military gentleman 
has arrested me for a deserter. I'm mistaken for another man, and 
the worst of the blunder is that the regiment is bound for the South 
to-morrow. Come over to Linfield, pray, at any trouble, for which 
you may reckon on my gratitude. Ask for " — whom shall I tell 
him to ask for? 

O'Stout. For Captain Harford. 

Albert. " Ask for Captain Harford, and tell him that I am, 
yours most gratefully, Albert Cherrington." 

O'Stout. Dumpy, bend straight ag'in. Dumpy, I detail you 
to deliver that note. 



20 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

Albert. The next house to the bridge. Ask for Harvey 
Crosscomb. 

Dumpy. Harvey Crosscomb. All right. (^Is about to exit when 
O'Stout coughs ', Dumpy turns and salutes him, then exit r. i e.) 

O^Stout. Left face! Forward march. {Exeunt both, l. i e.) 



Scene 3. — Tent or officer'' s headquarters in 3, backed by landscape ; 
flags, camp-stools, etc., about. 

(Captain Harford, O'Stout, Albert, d:«^ Soldiers discovered.^ 

Captain. Your report, Sergeant, and be quick. 

O'Stout. Caleb Holmes, sir, of Company B, enlisted yesterday 
and deserted to-day. Found skulking in the woods by me. 

Albert. Appearances are against me, sir, I must admit ; but 
neither have I enlisted, nor is my name Caleb Holmes. I am Albert 
Cherrington, a land-surveyor of New York. 

Captain. The devil you are. 

O'Stout. Jfs a wise recruit. Captain, that, knows his own 
name. 

Captain. Can you prove that you are not Caleb Holmes? 

Albert. Unfortunately my letters and papers were all in my 
coat. 

Captain. And where is your coat? 

O'Stout. Here, sir ; we found it not ten paces from where we 
found himself 

Captain. Young man, this looks bad for you. 

Albert. I know it, sir ; but I can only say I left my coat be- 
hind, the weather being warm, while I went on a short errand. 

Captain. Are you willing to swear to the truth of your remarks? 

Albert. I should prefer not to. I have sent for Mr. Crosscomb 
to identify me. His probity cannot be doubted. Are you not will- 
ing to take his word? {Enter Dumpy and Crosscomb.) 

Dumpy. Captain ! {He forgets to sahde ; O'Stout reminds 
him.) This is the party the prisoner sent for. 

Captain. What is your name, sir? 

Crosscomb. Crosscomb ! Harvey Crosscomb ! 

Captain. Mr. Crosscomb, we have made inquiries, and learn 
that you are a respectable and a responsible man. The prisoner 
has been arrested on suspicion of being a deserter, and has sent for 
you to identify him. Can you tell us his name ? 

Crosscomb. No, sir, I cannot ! 

Albert. Pvly God! Crosscomb, this is no joking matter; what 
do you mean? 

Captain. Remember, sir, his fate hangs on your answer. The 
penalty for desertion on the battlefield is death, and his will be 
scarcely less. Should you prove him guilty, he will be taken to the 
dry Tortugas. 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 21 

Crosscomb. I never saw that man before in all my life. 
Captain. You swear it? 
Crosscomb. I do. 
Albert. I am lost ! 
Captain. Fall in. 

Albert. Very well ! If fate compels me to be a soldier, my 
first duty shall be to kill a traitor. 

{Snatches Captain's sword a^id rushes at Crosscomb; is held back 
by O'Stout and Dumpy.) 

CURTAIN. 



ACT III. 

Scene i. — Rocky pass in 4or S- Set rocks r. afid l. u. e. Set tree 
up c. Run at 3. 

(Sal discovered seated on rock l. ; enter Jerry, r.) " 

Sal. Well, what are they? 

JerR'Y. The picket hne of the Johnnies. 

Sal. Johnnies — bah! They haven't a cent in the world. 
Come, let's make tracks away from here. 

Jerry. No ! While that New Hampshire regiment remains in 
this vicinity, I remain also. 

Sal. Jerry, there's something in your noddle regarding that 
New Hampshire regiment. Come, out with it. No secrets from 
me, or we part company right here. 

Jerry. Well, Sal, I'll tell you. There's a man in that regiment 
that I'm to get five hundred dollars for killing. 

Sal. And who offers the reward? 

Jerry. Never you mind; but, then, I may as well tell you. 
Yes, I will, for I may get knocked over, and then the money would 
go to waste. My benefactor's name is Crosscomb, and he has a 
particular interest in this man's death. 

Sal. Some girl scrape, I'll be bound. But have you located 
your man? 

Jerry. Yes, I picked him out yesterday through a friend of 
mine. He 'listed under the name of Caleb Holmes. {Sentry cries 
outside R., " Corporal of the guards post ten — nine o'' clock, and 
all's well:') 

Sal. Hush ! come away. They may challenge us. {Exeunt 
both L. 2 E.) 

{Enter Caleb l. u. e. with rebel uniform on.) 

Caleb. I could swear I heard a human voice come from this 
direction. Where am I? I must reconnoitre. Ah ! the Confed- 



22 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

erate picket line. I wonder whose command it is. It canH be 
my regiment — No, our camp is farther down the river. Confound 
this foraging, anyway. I havenH run across anything to eat yet — 
not so much as a bull-frog. But one must do it or starve. {Horses'* 
hoofs heard "L.^ Hullo! What's this coming? (^«/*?r LEONORA 
L. 2 E.) Halt! who comes there? 

Leonora. Why, monsieur, is that the way your most chivalrous 
nation receives a lady — at the point of the musket? 

Caleb. Damme, if it isn't a woman, and a good-looking one, too. 

Leonora. Sir, I'm ashamed of your manners. 

Caleb. And, by the Lord Harry, so am I. 

Leonora. Well, apropos of things at large — 

Caleb. Pm afraid I must trouble you to show me your pass. 
Very sorry, but you see duty must be done. 

Leonora. Ah yes, duty! That's the soldier's word always. 
Pray excuse me, sir. Before duty, courtesy must yield. But what 
if I have no papers to show? 

Caleb. Then it would be my painful — I mean my delightful 
duty to escort you to headquarters. 

Leonora. But suppose I mount my horse, and gallop away? 

Caleb. I should follow on mine. 

Leonora. But suppose you did not catch me? 

Caleb. But I would. Your horse isn't a patch on mine. But 
if you succeeded in getting away, I would simply raise my gun 
and shoot — 

Leonora. Me ! 

Caleb. Heaven forbid ! Your horse. Besides, he would be 
good for beef in these hard times. 

Leonora. Then you would not harm me? 

Caleb. Not for the whole Southern Confederacy. 

Leonora. It seems you do not value that very highly, and yet 
you wear the uniform. 

Caleb. Force of circumstances. 

Leonora. What circumstances ? 

Caleb. You force me to acknowledge a weakness? Well, here 
goes. I was drinking wine one evening in Baltimore, and the next 
I found myself in this uniform, and that, after discarding a blue 
one but three months before. 

Leonora. And so you would shoot my horse for beef, eh? 
But what if I shoot first — not your horse, but you. {^Points pistol.^ 

Caleb. Then you'd have to shoot, that's all. But I'm no good 
for beef, or anything else for that matter, and if death stared me 
in the face, I'd prefer his presentation from so pretty a hand as 
yours. 

Leonora. Now for that gallant speech you shall live. But the 
idea of a man who can say such pretty things being no good at all. 
I'm afraid you've had a great deal of practice, though you are so 
young. I am sorry you are so young, else I should ask you toad- 
vise me, for I am very unhappy spite of all I may seem. 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 23 

Caleb. Oh ! I may have young shoulders, but Tve got an old 
head. I can give the best of advice, but I can seldom follow it. 

Leonora. You invite confidence, and you shall have it. Did 
you ever hear of Colonel Harford, that bravest of men, who was 
killed at Spottsylvania .'' 

Caleb. Ay, Madam, he was the flower of the Confederate 
army. 

Leonora. I am his daughter. I have neither father, home, nor 
friends — the accursed Northerners have destroyed them all. I 
have just seen the torch apphed to our old mansion, our slaves 
made contraband, our hearth-stone made the scene of plunder, 
pillage and bloodshed, and these are the men who are fighting for 
what they call a noble cause. It's a marvel that I escaped, not 
with life, but honor. I have ridden day and night ; my last hope 
is to reach the Confederate lines and tell my story to General Lee, 
so that every Southerner, in taking revenge, may strike one blow 
for me. 

Caleb. Yours is indeed a harrowing tale, but one of many con- 
tingent to this cruel war. But do you know your way to General 
Lee"'s headquarters? 

Leonora. I must hold by the river, I suppose ; do you know? 

Caleb. No more than the man in the moon. Do you know 
how far? 

Leonora. - No; how should I know? 

Caleb. And youYe all alone. 

Leonora. Entirely. 

Caleb. Then we must find out where we are. I have been out 
foraging and have lost my way; so I'm as deeply in the mud as 
you are in the mire. I think my brigade is farther down the river. 
Here is the picket line at the edge of yonder wood. I know the 
countersign, and we'll find out. Come. 

Leonora. Stay ! I cannot follow you. I must find General Lee 
to-night, if he is to be found ; but the ceremony and delay through 
which I would have to pass should I follow you, would be very 
annoying. It is simple for you — you have strayed from your regi- 
ment and lost your way. They will give you the necessary infor- 
mation, then you can join me here, and we will proceed together. 

Caleb. You are right, and that's something wonderful for a 
woman. I'll return immediately. {^Exit r. 2 e.) 

Sentry {outside k.). Halt! Who comes there? 

Calkq {outside R.). A friend. 

Sentry {outside r.). Advance, and give the countersign. 

Leonora. Yes, the word was right. He is through the line. 
Now to await the outcome of this adventure. {Enter Sal ajid 
Jerry r. u. e.) Ah, what have we here? 

Sal. I tell you I'm sick of it. Here we've been following up 
this division for a week, and not the smallest chance of making a 
cent. 

Jerry. It's all right, I say. The battle's bound to come, besides 



24 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

the mail has been cut off, and they have their pockets lined with 
money, so when it does come ifll be a harvest. 

Leonora. Camp followers ! The brutal creatures who prey 
like vultures upon the fallen dead. 

Sal. Sh ! A woman, and alone. 

Jerry. Yes, and well dressed, too. She may have diamonds. 
Easy now. 

Leonora. My heart sickens at the thought of the carnage that 
will redden this ground so soon. But it must be done — the nation 
must be saved. 

Sal. Don't let her see you. Fll engage her from the front, 
while you steal up behind. 

Leonora. I wonder who my guide is. Poor honest fellow, he 
trusts the world as the world trusts him. I wonder if I shall ever 
see him again after to-night. I hope so. 

Sal. I beg your pardon, Miss — wouldn't you like to buy 
some little trinket to give to the poor soldier you're waiting for.? 

Leonora. No ! 

Sal. Don't your soldier boy use tobacco? See, I have some 
nice cigars. 

Leonora. I gave you my answer — go ! 

J'ERRY. Not yet, my lady. {Seizes her.) 

Leonora {throws him off, and draws two pistols^. Stand back, 
you carrion dogs. Were it not for alarming yonder sentry, I'd 
shoot you both with less compunction than I would a brace of 
wolves. Go ! your work is robbing the dead, and not the living. 

Jerry. Come on, Sal, don't sneak that way. She dare not 
shoot. 

Leonora. Don't be too sure of that. Remember that one live 
woman is more dangerous than a hundred dead men. {Exeunt Sal 
and Jerry, l. 2 e.) What a pity I had to let them go ; but the 
shot would have alarmed the sentry, and ruined all. 

{Enter Caleb, r. 2 e.) 

Caleb. It's all right. 

Leonora. Yes? 

Caleb. General Lee's headquarters are two miles farther down 
the river, covered with earthworks and felled trees. This is an out- 
post of Mississippi infantry on the extreme right of the line. My 
division is on the extreme left, so you see I must have strayed four 
miles out of my way. 

Leonora. Rather a long line. How many men does it repre- 
sent? 

Caleb. About ninety thousand, to say nothing of the artillery 
which are posted on the hill two miles back from the river. 

Leonora. Ninety thousand? Good! 

Caleb. But come — I promised to take you to the officer of the 
day. He'll provide us with passes, and then we may proceed. 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 25 

Leonora. One moment. Ninety thousand, with cavalry and 
artillery on the hill. General Lee in the centre. Right resting near 
the fork of the river, left four miles down the river. I thank you, 
}non ami. 

Caleb. Tve not guided you so badly after all. 

Leonora. You have guided me excellently, my friend, and I did 
right in coming to you for advice, so I will give you a little in re- 
turn. Beware of a woman's tears, for they are seldom genuine. I 
like you because you are a good-natured, impulsive fool, who thinks 
of a woman before himself just because she pretends to cry. You 
are too good to be wasted on this barren cause. Choose then — 
will you forage and find thistles, or will you be a man and follow 
me? 

Caleb. I see it all. Good Heavens ! I have been blind. You 
are a Union spy. 

Leonora. I am ; and if your heart beats true to the uniform you 
wear, I am your deadly foe. Come, dare you summon yonder sen- 
tinel and take me prisoner? 

Caleb. Your sex protects you. 

Leonora. No ; you dare not, for your heart is with the North. 

Caleb. But my allegiance is with the South, and I dare and will 
defeat the purpose for which you mocked me with your woman's 
tears. You gained from my sympathy what the stake would never 
gain from my fears. But you shall not use that information. You 
are not yet inside the Union lines. I threatened if you played me 
false to kill your horse. You forgot your sex when you lied to me, 
but I do not forget my manhood when I fulfil my threat. (^Kneels 
and shoots L. Horse falls outside l.) 

Leonora {draws pistols^. I thank you for emptying that gun. 
Surrender ! 

Caleb. What, to a woman? 

Leonora. Ay, a determined and desperate one. You said but 
now my horse was not a patch on yours. I will test that boast 
myself. 

Caleb {bugle call and drum roll outside r.). That shot has 
alarmed the sentry ; they will question me — I shall be condemned — 

Leonora. Ay, and likely hanged for giving information to the 
enemy. {Looks 0^1.. u. e.) You were right, monsieur. My horse 
was not a patch on yours ; and if he but carry me around the brow 
of yonder hill, I shall be in the Union lines, and use your informa- 
tiin to advantage. May we meet again, fuon ami. Au revoir. 
{Exit R. 3 e. ; noise of horses'' hoofs dying away in the distance.^ 

Caleb. The Union lines so near — then I am between two fires; 
but if I fall to the ground, it will be the first time that Satan ever de- 
serted me. {Exit\.., as scene closes in.) 



26 AT THE PICKET LINE. 



Scene II. — Landscape in i. 

{Enter Sal <a;«<^ Jerry, l. ; 7toise of battle in back.') 

Sal. Keep your eyes open now for stray shells, or you may get 
knocked into a cocked hat. 

Jerry. All right, Sal ; the fight won't last long. I want to 
get my eye on that Caleb Holmes ; perhaps in the thick of it I may 
get a shot at him. 

Sal. Which ever side wins, I don't care; but I hope they'll 
follow up the retreat, and leave the dead to us. 

Jerry. Yes. It will be bad for us if they bivouac. Let's get 
a little nearer. Keep your eye on the Fifteenth New Hampshire. 
Our game is in that regiment. 

Sal. All right. I'll keep my eye on him, and on that five hun- 
dred dollars you're to get for killing him. 

{Exeunt r. i e. ; e}iter Hiram, l.) 

Hiram. By Jehosaphat ! they're thicker'n grasshoppers in a 
grain patch. They can't say I didn't stand my ground. I didn't 
run till rd fired all my ammunition, but when I did run, I run like 
a son-of-a-gun. They say a good soldier never looks behind him. 
I'm darned sure I didn't till I got out of the reach of them sharp- 
shooters. Hullo, here comes a Johnnie skulking through the 
woods. I'll bet he's after me to take me prisoner. Til just fool 
him. I won't sass him for I know a trick worth two of that. (Lies 
down as if dead.) 

{Enter Caleb, l. i e.) 

Caleb. Well, it's a woman and a horse this time. I'd better 
get a pair of long ears and pose for a jackass. {Sees Hiram.) 
Hullo ! another unfortunate, hit by a sharp-shooter. {C?-osses R. ; 
Hiram moves.) What was that ? He still lives, poor fellow. 
{HiYi^AM groans .) Yes, he still lives, though mortally wounded. It 
would be a mercy for me to kill him and end his suffering — 

Hiram {spri7igt7ig np). Not by a darned sight. {Exit l. 
quickly.) 

Caleb. Another poltroon like myself. My blood tingles to be 
in the midst of it, and yet I cannot. How glorious she looked as 
she held me there at bay. I've half a mind to plunge in and be 
taken prisoner. Perhaps I might meet her again. Hullo ! what's 
this regiment coming through the woods ; a New Hampshire 
regiment, as I'm alive. I can see their colors. They'll be met by 
Colonel Raleigh's horse. Yes, here they come. Now then, boys. 
Oh ! what a charge, and how bravely met. The horse retreat — 
the regiment follow ; but who's that brave young fellow staggering 
against the tree ? He is wounded, I can see his face. I'y Jove ! 
I know that man. {Cheers outside R.) Ah, the field is won. 
Another victory for the North. Now then, to crawl into a hole 
somewhere, and pull the hole in after me. {Exit R. i e.) 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 27 



Scene 3. — Same as Scene i, but strewn with dead bodies, muskets , 
gun-carriages, etc. Cherrington discovered c. 

Albert. Water! Water! What, am I dying here alone? 
Good-by forever, my earthly hopes. Curse the hajjd that struck 
me down. 'Twas not a soldier's, for I was facing the enemy. I 
dreamed that bullet sped way from the North — from Crosscomb's 
cruel hand. I can fancy I see him now, leading my Silvy to the 
altar. ( Visio?t through gauze drop at back, of Crosscomb witJi ari?i 
around SiLVY. Her face tur7ied away as if reluctantly giving 
consent. This may be omitted if desired.^ Yes, he has poisoned 
her heart towards me. Heed him not, Silvy — Silvy, hear me. I 
am coming — I am coming. • 

{Vision fades and Ku^ert faints ; enter Sal l. u. e. She robs 

dead body.^ 

Soldier {as she robs him). Whoever you are, I beg of you to 
send this to my poor old mother. 

Sal {taking pocket-book) . Yes, I will, and V\\ send you to your 
mother earth. {Stabs him.) 

Soldier. Ah ! you she-devil. 

{Dies ; enter Jerry, r.) 

Jerry. Is that you, Sal? What luck? 
Sal. The best of luck. Did you kill your man? 
Jerry. I hit him in the back, and Pm looking for him now to 
make sure he's dead. 

{Enter Caleb, r. u. e. unseeji by others.) 

Caleb. And this is the end of all — friend and foe sleep side 
by side, their passions stilled forever. Some poor heart will ache 
for this one, some mother's tears be shed for that. (Sal stabs 
another.) My God ! what's that? A woman robbing the dead and 
killing the dying? No, not a woman, but a fiend. (Sal crosses to 
Albert, c. ; Caleb steals up behind. She raises her knife to stab 
him ; Caleb knocks it from her hand with gun.) You she-devil ! 

Jerry. Leave the woman alone ; the corpse belongs to her. 

Caleb {knocks him down with fist, then raises gun). No; I'll 
not waste an honest bullet on you — go! {Exeunt Sal and Jerry 
L. I. e. ; Albert rising, the lime-light strikes him, a?id Caleb 
catches him as he faijits again.) My God ! It's Al — my brother. 

{Enter Colonel Harford, Sergeant O'Stout, and other soldiers 

L. and cross R.) 

Colonel. What's this — a corpse robber? 

O'Stout. Yes, colonel, don't spare him — 'twould be a sin. 



28 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

Caleb. Hear me, men, he is my brother. 

Colonel. A nice story that. You are right, sergeant, this crime 
demands summary vengeance — ready, aim ! 

{Enter Leonora, r. i e.) 

Leonora. - Hold ! Colonel Harford, what are you about to do? 

Colonel. Kill a dog whom we found robbing the dead. 

Leonora. You are mistaken ; I know this man. 

Colonel. And whom do you say he is? 

Leonora. A friend to the cause. He is the man who gave me 
the information about the enemy. The man to whom we owe our 
victory to-day. {Aside to Caleb.) Hush ! not a word. It is the 
only way to save your life. 

Colonel. His uniform is gray. 

Leonora. 'Tis but a ruse. His heart is white. 

Colonel. He is a rebel dog — ready ! aim ! 

Leonora. No ! He is a Union spy. 

CURTAIN. 



ACT IV. 

Scene. — The U7iion Camp. Soldiers discovered playing cards, 
others reading, ivriting letters, smoking, etc. "A" tent down R. ; 
tripod and fire 7ip l ; mossy bank down l. 

O'Stout. I say, Dumpy', this is mighty good weed you have 
here. Where did you get it? Did the wife send it to you? 

Dumpy. No, Sergeant, I bought it from the old woman who 
came through the camp yesterday. 

O'Stout. Which pocket do you kape it in? 

Dumpy. In my coat-pocket. Why? 

O'Stout. Faith, I'll kape my eye on you. In the next fight I'll 
push you in the way of a cannon-ball, and so fall heir to your 
tobacco . {All laugh . ) 

Dumpy. You might keep your eye on old Cummings too. They 
say he got something stronger than tobacco from the old woman. 

O'Stout. Was it a drop of the crater. Dumpy? 

Dumpy. So I'm told. 

O'Stout. Will she be around agin to-day. Dumpy? 

Dumpy. Yes, she promised to be around about this time. 

O'Stout. Come on. Dumpy, we'll see if we can find her. I 
need something to kape up my spirits. We've been lying here 
idle in camp so long that the cobwebs are forming in my throat. 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 29 



(Exi^ O'Stout, l. ; Dumfy fo/lowmg.) 

Jerry (entering R.). I say, Dumpy. (Dumpy stops.) Doesn't 
it strike you as rather odd that one Caleb Holmes should be killed in 
the recent battle, and another of the same name should spring up 
to take his place? 

Dumpy. Why, now that you speak of it, it does seem queer. 
But how did you know he was killed? You never saw him, for 
you only joined two weeks ago. 

Jerry. I heard the boys speaking of the coincidence. They 
said you had a hand in his capture when he tried to desert. 

Dumpy. So I did, and IVe always regretted it, for I think we 
got the wrong man. But how does all this interest you? 

Jerry. Why, you see, 1 came from the same township as Caleb 
Holmes, and I'm not sure which is which. 

(Enter Hiram, l.) 

Dumpy. Here comes Hiram Lufkin. He's the very man to put 
you on the right track. He claims to come from the same place, 
too. 

Jerry. Why, sure enough. Hullo, Hiram. 

Hiram. How do. 

Dumpy. Well, I must be after the Sergeant to hunt up that 
female sutler. (Exit l.) 

Hiram. Let me see. Do I know you? 

Jerry. Well, I don't know as we were ever formally introduced, 
but we're all comrades, you know. They tell me you're from Lin- 
field, Hiram. 

Hiram. Yes, I be. 

Jerry. Well, did you know this Caleb Holmes from there? 

Hiram. Yes, I did. 

Jerry. Well, is this the same man who joined us a few days 
ago? 

Hiram. Yes, it is. 

Jerry. Well, I wonder if he had an uncle named Worthington 
in the shipping business in Boston. 

Hiram. Yes, he did. 

Jerry. He has a sister named Silvy, hasn't he? 

Hiram (decidedly). Yes, he has. 

Jerry (aside). That's my game, without a doubt. (Aloud.) 
All right, Hiram. He's the man I thought he was. (During 
above dialogue the soldiers have gradually strolled off r. and l.) 

Hiram. What in thunder's he up tew? I don't believe he ever 
came from Linfield. They don't raise such murderous lookin' 
critters there. He tried putty hard to pump me, but he didn't 
make out to git much. Putty dry pumpin', I guess. The sucker 
would take hold. He ought to poured something into the pump 



30 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

first. They think I'm putty gol darned green around here ; but 
they'll find out when the time comes Til make things red. 

Voice {outside l.) Hullo, hayseed. 

Hiram. You go put your head to soak. 

VoiQ.^. {ojUside i\.). Pumpkin head ! 

Hiram. You do the same. 

{Other voices frojn either side call out , " Jay,'''' '* Reuben^'' " Squash,'''' 
etc. ; four soldiers rush on with blanket, and toss Hiram in it. 
Enter Caleb as Union soldier.') 

Caleb. Hold on, there. Leave him alone. {Four soldiers 
exit.) What's the matter, Hi? 

Hiram {on ground). Is that you, Cale? Say, you ain't got a 
mustard plaster in your pocket, have you? 

Caleb. Oh, you mustn't mind that. Hi. They only do it to 
break the dull monotony. 

Hiram. Well, I guess they've broken my whole anatomy. But, 
Cale, I'm glad Tve found you ; I want to put you on your guard 
agin that Jerry Slater. He's been around here asking all sorts o' 
questions, and gitting you mixed up with Al Cherrington. 

Caleb. Poor Al ! Why, what object can he have, Hiram ! 

Hiram. Gol darned if I know! He wanted to know if your 
uncle wa'n't in the shipping business in Boston. He is, ain't he? 

Caleb. Yes, curse him. He's as rich as a nabob, and a darn 
sight meaner. He wouldn't throw me a crust if I was starving for 
it. I don't want to know anything about him. Come up to my 
quarters, Hiram. Pve a newspaper from home IVe read it 
through four times, now you may read it. {Exit, r. u. e.) 

Hiram. I'll commit it to memory like a Sabbath-skule lesson. 
I will, by gosh. 

{Exit after Caleb. Enter Jerry and Sal, l. i e.) 

Jerry. We're in big luck, Sal. I just got a letter from Cross- 
comb in answer to the one I sent. {Enter Leonora at back and 
listens.) 

Leonora {aside). The two camp followers I saw the night 
before the battle. The man must have enlisted, and for no good 
object. Perhaps he's a rebel spy. I'll shadow him. It will be 
spy versus spy. {Gets behijid tent.) 

Jerry. Come into the tent here. If anybody comes upon us 
suddenly, we are driving a bargain over some trinket — you under- 
stand ? 

Sal. Yes ! Now let's see the letter. 

Jerry. Here it is. {Reads.) 

" Linfield, N. H., Oct. 2. 
Your letter informing me of your enlistment, also that of another 
Caleb Holmes, came safely to hand. From your description of the 



I 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 3 1 

man, he must be the brother of the girl I wish to marry, and co- 
heir with her to all the Worthington property. Keep your eye on 
him. Should he fall on the field of battle, as did the other Caleb 
Holmes, or die in camp of fever, or any other cause, I will do the 
same by you as I did before. 

Yours, 

Harvey Crosscomb." 
What do you think of that ? 

Sal. I think it won't do to wait for another battle. We may 
not be so successful. 

Jerry. I agree with you, and have thought of a plan. Sell him 
a bottle of poisoned liquor. Mix it good and strong, so there will 
be no chance of failure. 

Sal. But I must leave here directly after, or they may 
suspect. 

Jerry. Yes, do so, and leave it to me to avert suspicion. 
Now go ; somebody may be watching. 

Sal. Don't you dare to play me false, or I'll serve you the same 
dose. {Exit l.) 

Jerry. Now to settle this Caleb Holmco, and get the one 
thousand dollars. I wish a few more of the same name would turn 
up. 

(£'«/^r Caleb, l. u. e. 

Caleb. Hullo, Jerry! Have you seen that old woman that ped- 
dles tobacco? 

Jerry. Yes, I just left her. She's got something stronger than 
tobacco, too. {Confidentially.) Just give her the wink, and men- 
tion my name. I stand in with her. {Exit L.) 

Caleb. Yes, I suspect as much. 

(Leonora comes froi?z behind tent.') 

Leonora. Ah, my dear old simpleton, still looking for hooks 
to bite at. 

Caleb. Madam, you never approach me but in the spirit of sar- 
casm. Did you save my life that you might have a butt for your 
stabs of irony? 

Leonora. Hush ! my father. 

{Enter Colonel Harford, l.) 

Colonel Harford. Ah, my child, I have been looking for 
you for half an hour. (Caleb salutes.) 

Leonora. I have been to the hospital, reading to the poor 
fellows there. 

Colonel Harford. I might have known you were on some 
mission of goodness. Ah, my child, when I opposed your wish to 
serve your country, I little knew of what you were capable ; but 
now I see that if this struggle results in victory to us, no little 
share of it will be due to the women who helped us on. 



32 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

Leonora. Nonsense, father ; I shared your labor in peace, 
why not in war? 

Colonel Harford. Mr. Holmes, I have good news for you; 
you are to be made a corporal. 

Caleb. I ? Sir, I cannot find words to thank you. Believe me 
I do not deserve it. 

Leonora. Hush ! {Tries to catch his eye.) 

Colonel Harford. More modesty. Need I tell you that 
your promotion was secured by my daughter? She told us how 
you don#ed the rebel gray that night, and in the face of the greatest 
danger learned the enemies' position. (Leonora signals to hi?n 
to keep sile?it.) 

Leonora {laughing). And how he nearly lost his life as a 
corpse robber. 

Colonel Harford. But come, Leonora, you are wanted at 
head-quarters. We have another expedition on foot that requires 
your services. 

Leonora. I will report soon, father. Just one word with Cor- 
poral Holmes first. {Exit CoL. Harford, r.) 

Caleb. Madam, how can I ever thank you — oh, I feel like a 
fool — no, a knave, after all my unworthiness to be treated like this. 
I have no right to the name of manhood. Why did you not let me 
die? 

Leonora. I saved your life because I liked you — you good- 
natured chucklehead ! You are too harmless to die. Now listen ! 
You are such a noody-noody, I will for the second time save your 
life. You had an uncle named Worthington who was very wealthy, 
did you not? 

Caleb. I have. Yes. 

Leonora. No — you had. He is dead. You and your sister 
are his only heirs. For that reason certain parties conspire against 
your life. Some liquor will be oiTered you to buy. Do not let it 
pass your lips, for it is poisoned. 

Caleb, What are you telling me? 

Leonora The truth. Obey me and you will defeat them. The 
same arm that struck your sister's lover down now seeks your life. 

Caleb. Madam — Leonora — you are an angel ! Whether your 
genius comes from the same divine source I know not ; but this I do 
know — that all 1 have, even life itself, I owe to you, and 'twould 
be a sacrilege to repay the debt and be your equal. {Kneels and 
kisses her hand.) 

Leonora. Remember w^hat I told you. {Exit r.) 
Caleb. She loves me, and oh, how unworthy I am. 

{Efiier '" vl, l. u. e., with Supt. O'Stout, Hiram, Jerry, Dumpy, 

and others, all clamoring for her wares.) 

O'Stout. Aisy, now, ye spalpeens ! Let yez have order, or I'll 
have the ould woman's privilege taken away, and the lot of yez put 
in the guard-house. 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 33 

Jerry. No, boys, not one of you should spend a cent until he 
has squaned himself. 

All. That's so ; that's so. 

Jerry. He's drunk on all of us before to-day, now let him return 
the compliment. 

Caleb. Of whom are you speaking, Slater? 

Jerry. Of you. Why don't you set 'em up like a man? 

Caleb. I'll set you upside down like a monkey. {Rushes at 
hi?H.) 

O'Stout {interfering) . Aisy now ! The long and short of it is, 
the boys think, as you're lately appointed corporal, that you ought 
to celebrate the occasion by purchasing some of the ould lady's 
cough mixture. 

Hiram. Yes ; we've all got bad colds. Ahem ! 

Caleb. Oh, well, as that's the general sentiment I will. How 
much, old lady ? 

Sal. Well, here's a large bottle that will go around the whole 
crowd. (Caleb hands it to O'Stout.) And here's a small one for 
yourself alone. You may have the both for two dollars. 

Caleb. All right. Cheap enough. Here's your money. 

Sal. iconfideiitially) . Don't give the others any out of the 
slnall bottle. It's superior. Drink it all yourself. 

Jerry {aside) . Now make tracks as quick as your legs will carry 
you. 

Sal. Never fear. {Exit l. i e.) 

Caleb. Now, boys, I have a proposition to make. 

All. Hear ! Hear ! 

Caleb. Well, as my friend Jerry Slater has insisted on my 
shouting here, and claims to be the injured party by my ungenerous 
habits, I propose that he shall take this small bottle and drink it 
all himself. 

All. Yes! Yes! 

Jerry. No, thank you; I decline. I'll drink with the boys. ' 

Caleb. But I insist. You all heard what he said. I claim the 
right to dictate on my own shout. 

O'Stout. Yis, he must drink it, the blackguard, if it stretches 

him. 

Jerry. No ! no ! {Starts to rtm up c. ; is caught and held by 
Dumpy and Hiram while Caleb potirs liquor down his throaty 
ixjhefi released he staggers.) 

O'Stout. Stand straight, you divil ! Are you drunk so soon? 
{He falls.) 

Jerry. Oh ! I'm dying. Quick ! an emetic ! The liquor was 

poisoned. 

O'Stout. Poisoned ! Don't stir to help him, boys. He knew 
it, and is caught in his own trap. 

All. Yes, he knew it! Let him die ! Down with him ! {They 
rush at him.) 

Caleb {holding them back). No! Don't touch him. Speak 
before it is too late. Tell me why you did it. 



34 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

Jerry. Read this. {Gives letter ; enter Col. Harford, l u e ) 
^^OL. Harford. Sergeant O'Stout, what is the meauin- of this 
disturbance ? 

Caleb {after reading letter hurriedly). Speak — was it Cros' 
comb s work.'' 

Jerrv. Yes ! {Dies.) 

Col Harford. Are you men to stand here and see a comrade 
die without assistance ? 

Caleb. They are men, Col. Harford, but he was not a comrade 
He was a snake in our midst, and, should they stir to save him, they 
would be no longer men. ' 

Col. Harford. Who was he? 

Caleb. He was the man who made his uniform a murderer's 
garb, who sought my life f&r greed of gold, and in the effort lost 
his own. 

Col. Harford. What does that letter mean? 
Caleb. It means that I, who have almost starved for a crust of 
bread, am now^ a millionnaire. 

{Picture of surprise.) 
CURTAIN. 



ACT V. 

Scene. — Squire Holmes's /&//^//^« m 3. Door, l. f. ; ivuidow, 
R. F. ; fireplace, R. Table and chairs, l. Scetie backed by land- 
scape in 4. 

(Efiter Hiram at rise, with stick and bundle over shoulder.) 

Hiram (singin^^). "Jerusalem, my happv— (Calls.) Squire' 
{Sings. \ How do I sigh for " — {Calls.) Squire ! I wonder where 
the Squire is. Looks kind o' deserted around here. Kind o' like 
It did at "Hippopotamus" Courthouse, w^here Lee surrendered. 
Lor, won't they be s'prised to see me ! Lut I mustn't tell 'em 
anything without orders from headquarters. I s"pose Silvy'll have 
a hundred questions to ask me about Al Cherrington. I w^onder 
where they are. Guess V\\ go up-stairs and see if l' can find Silvy. 
"Jerusalem (singing), my happy — (C'«//i.) Silvy! How do I 
sigh for '■'■ — Silvy I 

{Exit L. ; eJiter Squire Holmes, d. f., ivith armful of wood. He 
is lame and decrepit.) 

Squire {dropping wood at fireplace, r.). Well, I reckon that'll 
be enough to start it. It's getting putty chilly weather, and my 
rheumatiz is beginning to tell on me. It's hard work chopping 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 35 

wood. Ah, well, I wonH have to do it long. FU have a son-in- 
law to-morrow, and TU make him do it. (Si'g/is.) Ah, poor 
Silvy ! But she'll be happy. Of course she will. Crosscomb's a 
young man for his years. Of course not so young as that scape- 
grace^ Al Cherrington— no, I mustn't say that now, for he's dead. 
(Albert appears with army overcoat on at window, pale and 
shattered in appearance.) Dead like my poor boy Caleb. Til 
forgive them both, for now they sleep, perhaps side by side. 
(6"S^^ Albert.) Well, what do you want? {Pause.) Can't you 
speak ? 

Albert {perceiving he is tiot recognized). I want nothmg. 

{Exit R.) 

Squire. Why, he's a soldier ! {Go^s to door and calls.) Here ! 
Come back ! {Coming down.) It shall never be said that I turned 
a soldier from my door. {Enter Albert, d. f.) So you're a 
soldier, are you? 

Albert. 1 have been a soldier. Don't you know me? 

Squire. Oh, yes; Pm sharp enough. I knew you were a sol- 
dier by your clothes. A soldier, eh? Ah, sir, soldier is a sad 
word to me. A sad one, but a proud one. I had a boy a soldier, 
but not a comm.on one like you. No, sir; he was an officer. 
Think of that, my man, an officer! 

Albert. Good Heaven! He must mean me. 

Squire. Ah! \ thought that would take your breath away. 
Yes, sir; you're now talking to a lieutenant's father. Poor Cale ! 
He was always wildish as a lad. Too much like the old block, Pm 
afraid, when'the old block was new. But he died, sir — he died. 
{Weeps.) 

Albert. Died? How do you know? 

Squire. Oh, I know it — I know it. Neighbor Crosscomb 
went to Boston and found out all about it. Killed at Ream's 
Station. 

Albert. Ream's Station ! Why, I was there ! 

Squire {rising). Bless my soul ! Were you? Give me your 
hand. {Shakes hands.) 

Albert. And Mr. Crosscomb told you he was killed? 

Squire. Yes; and t'other one too. My foster-son, Albert 
Cherrington. But he died on the rebel side, so Pm not so sorry 
for him. He was a viper, sir — a snake that I had fostered. Cross- 
comb learned all about it. Why, what makes you look so sad and 
queer? Dash it, you're a hero if you were there. Maybe — I 
was his father you know — maybe you knew my boy. Maybe you 
saw him die. 

Albert {aside). Crosscomb! I see it all. What hellish vil- 
lanv! {Aloud.) What shall 1 say? Mr. Holmes — 

Squire. Yes ; that was his name — Lieutenant Caleb Holmes. 
Did you know him? 

Albert {aside). This is terrible. {Aloud.) What was his 
regiment? 



36 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

Squire. Eh? Well, that's slipped my mind. But my girl 
will know. I wish he couid have been buried by his mother's 
side, but God's will be done. Churchyard or battlelield, it's all one 
to him now; and I will meet him and forgive him, and he me, too, 
just as soon — just as soon — (IVee^s.) 

Albert {aside). His reason is leaving him. {Aloud.) Mr. 
Holmes, look at me. Don't you know me? 

Squire. Yes, yes — I know — I know. You were with my boy. 
He wore a coat like yours. But you shall tell us all about it. 
That is, if you don't mind seein' a gal cry a little. Yes, you shall 
tell Silvy and me. You haven't seen Silvy? She's terribly like 
him now and then. We'll be all alone. Crosscomb won't come 
for an hour yet, and I like to have her all alone to myself all I can 
now, for she's going to be married so soon. 

Albert. Married ! 

Squire. Yes ; to Harvey Crosscomb, the best farmer in these 
parts — 'cept me. They're going to be married to-day ; but he 
won't be here for an hour yet. 

Albert. Your daughter is going to marry Harvey Crosscomb? 

Squire. Ay, in one hour, at yonder church, beside which her 
poor mother is buried. Ah, it seems but yesterday that I married 
her, and her brother has never forgiven her, and now he's rolling 
in his millions, and wouldn't throw me a cent to keep me from 
starving. 

Albert. And she — Silvy? Does she love this Crosscomb? 

Squire {rising). Young man, if you weren't my son's comrade, 
I'd — why, of course, she loves him. But you shall tell us that 
story. I'll call her. Silvy ! 

Albert. No ! Let her stay. What mockery it is that I had 
not truly died. The star that lighted my wretched life will shine 
no more for me, and this ring that was to bind us soul to soul shall 
curse an honest hand no more. {Takes ri?ig fro/n hand, goes to 
window, R. P., and throws ring out.) Away with it ! Its use is 
gone forever. Would that I were in the trenches at Petersburg, or 
that the bullet that struck me had taken a truer course and ended 
my wretched life. {Exit, d. f.) 

Squire. Well, that young man is rather unaccommodating. 
{Enter Hiram, l.) 

Hiram. Hullo, Squire. 

Squire. Who is it? 

Hiram. It's me. Squire. I've come back covered with glory, 
but no scars. 

Squire. Ah ! My boy Avould have had them to point to with 
pride, but they killed him — they killed him. 

Hiram. Don't you know me. Squire? Don't you know 
Hi — ram? 

Squire. Not — not Hiram Lufkin? He's gone to the war. 

Hiram. But the war's over now, and he's come back. 

Squire. Yes ; why, Hiram, it is you ! {JsAx^km grasps his hand, 
and dances with glee.) 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 37 



{Enter Crosscomb, dressed for wedding.') 

Squirk. Perhaps you— ^ .rru 

Crosscomb. Hullo, Squire ! Why, Hiram, is that you? {Holds 
out hand to HiRAM, who ptits both his hands deliberately behind 

his back.) 

Hiram. Yes, it's me — all's left of me. 

Crosscomb. You seem to have all your arms and legs. 

Hiram. Yes; but I'm missin' my wits. Them was skeered 
clean out o' me. 

Crosscomb. You always were missing them. 

Squire. But, Hiram, you haven't told me — did you see my 

boy Caleb ? r • j 

Hiram. No ; but I saw one of Mr. Crosscomb's friends. 

Crosscomb. Who was it? 

Hiram. A gentleman by the name of Slater — Jerry Slater. 

Crosscomb. I don't know him. 

Hiram. Well, he knowed you. I was present at his deathbed, 
and he sent his dying love to you. 

Crosscomb {aside). This young devil knows something.- I 
must hurry matters. {Aside.) At what battle did he die? 

Hiram. Battle — he wa'n^t in no battle. He was pizened. He 
spoke about a Boston gentleman named Worthington. 

Squire. Worthington? Why, that's my brother-in-law — the 
mean old skunk. {Enter Silvy, l. ; Crosscomb holds oid his arrns 
to her-, she pays no atteiition, but passes him, and goes to Hiram.) 

Silvy. Hiram, is it you? 
_ Hiram. It's me, Silvy. {They embrace.) 

Crosscomb. Ahem, Silvy! Remember we are to be married 
soon, and such conduct don't look exactly — 

Silvy {holding Hiram's hand). Oh, I couldn't help it; I was 
so ^lad to see him. O Hiram, you must sit down with me for an 
hour or two, and tell me all about it. Oh, I forgot, 1 have an en- 
tragement in an hour. I must go to church and be married. But 

after that — , , , ,, 

Hiram. All right, Silvy ; I've got whole bushels to tell you. 

Silvy. Oh, I wish I had time to listen now. 

Crosscomb. Come, Silvy, we must soon start. 

Silvy. Mr. Crosscomb, before marrying you I want to say one 
thing, — if Albert Cherrington had lived, I never would have con- 
sented to this, even to save my father. I cannot swear to love 
you, only with my lips ; but if you want no more than a wife who 
will'simply do her duty by you, then for poor father's sake — 

Crosscomb. Say no more. Of course I don't look to your lov- 
ing me all in a minute as I love you. That will come in time. 
{^Aside>) I know what I want. 

Silvy. You have been very kind to father and to me. 

Crosscomb. And Til be kinder before I'm done. 



38 AT THE PICKET LINE. 

SiLVY. You will be quite content, then, with what I can give 
you, and will expect no more ? 

Crosscomb. Why, bless the gal, yes. It is understood. Come, 
we'll seal it with a kiss. 

SiLVY. No ! No ! {Shrinking in disgust.) Wait till we are 
married. {Aside.) Oh ! how shall I ever bear it ? 

Crosscomb. See, darling, I was just about to buy a ring at the 
jeweller's, when coming up the road I saw something sparkling in 
the sun. I picked it up, and what should it be but a gold ring. 
You see fortune is on our side, for she saved me the expense of 
buying one. There is something engraven on the inside, but my 
eyes are too old to make it out. Perhaps you can. 

SiLVY {taking ring and reading). "From Al to Silvy." 
{Excitdiily.) Ah it is his ring ! 

Crosscomb. Wliose ring ? 

SiLVY. Al Cherrington's. WHiat does it mean ? 

Crosscomb. Nonsense, Silvy, he is dead ! 

SiLVY. He is not dead, or that ring would have been buried 
with him. He is living — he is living! 

Hiram {throiving down hat emphatically). Yes, Silvy, he is 
a-living. 

Silvy. Where is he — Avhere is he .'' 

Albert {enteriiig qnickly). Here! 

Silvy. Thank God — thank God ! {Rushes into his artns. 
After applause, Hiram thumbs nose at Crosscomb.) 

Albert. Silvy, I know all now. I know whatever seems, that in 
your soul you are true to me. 

Silvy. Ah, could you doubt ? Your faith is not as strong as 
mine, even when I thought you dead. 

Crosscomb. Have that blackguard soldier turned out-of-doors. 

Albert {advaticifig to Crosscomb, who retreats behind table r.). 
Mr. Crosscomb, you are the man who sought to destroy my life by 
a contemptible plot. You are too old and too degraded to horse- 
whip ; be off with you, and leave my own to me. 

Crosscomb. Perhaps you think it's very noble and grand to 
come here a beggar, and bully a girl into sending her father to the 
poorhouse. Perhaps you'll pay me that fifteen hundred dollars he 
owes me. 

Albert. You have made good use of your time, haven't you? 
When I left here two years ago the debt was only five hundred. 

Crosscomb. No matter what it was. Her father now owes me 
fifteen hundred dollars. 

{Enter Caleb, nicely dressed.) 

Caleb. Then her father's son will pay it. 
Hiram. Hooray! {Throws hat up.) 

Silvy. Caleb, my brother ! {Kisses him.) 

Caleb. Father I 



AT THE PICKET LINE. 39 

Squire. My boy — my boy ! (^Embraces /lim.) 

Caleb. Father, I will save you, for I am now a rich man. 
After my discharge from the army, 1 went to find my Uncle Wor- 
thington — 

Squire. Yes, I know — a skinflint. The hardest-^^earted old 
miser. 

Caleb. Don't say that, father. The poor old fellow is dead. 
Died without a will, and Silvy and I, being the next of kin, we must 
divide a fortune. 

Squire. No, he is not dead. There is some mistake. Cross- 
comb saw him since that time. It can't be. 

Caleb. It can be, and is. Crosscomb knew it all. That's the 
reason he wanted to marry Silvy. 

Squire. What's this you're telling me? 

Caleb. That he knew it four years ago. That he tried to kill 
one heir and marry the other ; but his accomplice was caught in his 
own trap and confessed. 

Hiram. And I can swear to it, for I was there. {Enter Leo- 
nora, well dressed, d. f.) 

Leonora. And so was I. 

Squire {crosses stage to Crosscomb, l.). You gol darned old 
skunk, you ! {Strikes at hhn with canej Crosscomb dodges and 
cane strikes table. Squire strikes again j he dodges agai7i, and is 
caught by policeina7t, who enters D. F.) 

Police. You're just the man I want. {Seizes hi?n and exit 
with him, d. f.) 

Squire. Why, Caleb, who is this lady? 

.Caleb. This lady is your daughter. 

Silvy {kissing her^ . My sister? 

Caleb. Yes ; and my wife. (Hiram dances with Joy.) 

CURTAIN. 



A New Comedy. 



A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS. 

By ST. CLAIR HURD. 

For four male and fivo female characters. Scenery, two interioi;; 
easily arranged; costumes modern and simple. Plays an hour and a 
half. Tiiis little piece has more plot tlian is usual in plays of its icngih, 
and works ni) to an exciting climax. .Solomon Nathan is a capital 
co:uedy part, and Phineas Plmnnel and Phoebe Stopper excellent eccen 
trie character parts. This piece has been many times successfully per- 
formed from manuscript. 

Price .... 15 cents. 



FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY, 



A DRAMATIC PARAPHRASE IN ONE SCENE, 
Based upon Tennyson's *' Dream of Fair Women." 

By EDITH LYNWOOD WINN. 

(As pre-^ente 1 by th*^ l*olymnia Society, of Shorter College, 
Home, Ga., April, 1889.) 

Thirt5'-nine girls are called for by the full text of this excellent 
entertainment, besides the " Dreamer " who has the vision ; but a 
smaller number may be used, at pleasure, by simply reducing the num- 
ber of tableaux. No scenery is required, and the costumes can be easily 
contrived by home talent. This is a very picturesque and enjoyable 
entertainment, and by giving a large number of pretty girls a chance to 
look their best, is sure to please them and every one else. 

Price .... 15 cents. 



WHO'S TO INHERIT? 

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT. 
FOR FEiV!ALE CHARACTERS ONLY. 

For nine female characters. Scene, an easy interior; costumes, 
mode .11 and simple. Margery is a "rough diamond," who always speaks 
!)•>;■ !ii nth Miss Chatter, Miss Pry and Miss Nicely are a very anmsing 
. • : ) ot gossips, to whom Mrs. Fitzfudge's sharp tongue is a terror. 

Price .... 15 cenU. 



ANOTHER "COUNTRY SCHOOL." 



THE OLD-FASHIONED 





AN OLD FOLKS ENTERTAINMENT IN ONE SCENE. 



By NETTIE H. PELMAM. 



For elovon male and live female cliaiacters, and as many more as desired. 
Scene, the iiiLcrior of a barn, easily arranged; costumes, old fashioned. Plays 
forty minutes or more, according to number of songs and specialties i-.tiodiiccu. 
Very easy to get up, and very funny. An excellent introduction for a dance, 
supper or sociable, where a mixed entertainment is desired. 

Price, .... 15 Cents. 

SVNOPSIS: 
SCENE. — Uncle Nathan's barn. Bobby and Scipio. In black and white. A 
few conundrums. "Silence am gold." Gathering of the neighbors. Music 
and fun. Thomas Jefferson is heard from. '* Von leedlo song," by Solomon 
Ja'vI. Betsy and Josiah. A leap-year courtship. Algernon Fitznoodlo and 
Little Lord Fauntleroy. The dude and the darling. F.tznoiM.lo tr.l.es a 
tunible. Patrick and Ah Sin. Haee prejudices. Harmony out of discord. 
IMusic. Betsy and the swing. A little mislako. P.ctsy r cites. The 
IIuMA^'II•^o^•JE. Pat and Kitty. The red ear. " Hurrah for supper ! " 



A DOUBLE SHUFFLE. 



By HARRY O. HANLON. 



Three male and two female characters. Scenery and costumes very simple. 
An admirable little parlor piece, playing about thirty-five mii;utes. Fred 
Siiiiers, a collegian, with a taste for practical joking, tries to piny a little joke 
on lis sister and his fiancee, but they succeed in turning the tables completely 
upon him and his two college chums. Very bright and amusing. A sure hit. 

Price, . . . . J5 Cents. 



A NEW PLAY FOR GIRLS. 




^E Chaperon, 



A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS, 

By RACHEL E. BAKER, 

PART AUTHOR OF "AFTER TAPS," ETC. 



■: 1 female characters. Scenery not difficult. Costumes, tennis j(owns 
and modern street and evening gowns, with picturesque 
Gypsy costumes for Miriam and Jill. Time 
in playing, two and a half hours. 

Price 95 cents. 

SVNOPSIS: 

iJT I. Jack AND Jill. A love game. Cousins for sale.. " My kingdom for 
a, liair[)in." The French teacher. A few coimndrvims. Miriam and Jill. 
Tlie Gypsy's blessing. Kora and the French language. BlUtt-doux and 
Billy I\Ianahan. An invitation. "Iwill be your chaperon!" Telling for- 
tunes. The Tknnis Drill. Tales out of school. Joyce and the beggars. 
1 he accxisaiion. Joyce to the rescue. "I cannot look into your eyes and 
believe you guilty." Under a cloud. The Gypsy's prophecy. "Miriam the 
CJypsy has spoken, and she never breaks her word." 

^CT II. The Chapekon. In the studio. Nora and the man in armor, A 
spiritual manifestation. Eavesdropping, Locked in. The artist's model. 
A little lark. The bogus chaperon. The skeleton in the closet, llomeo 
and Juliet adapted. Miriam the Gypsy. The secret of the papers. "God 
be with th' ni and With those to whom they belong!" Masquerading. 
Korn'sjig. A surprise and an escape. The school-ma'am outwitted. Tni*' 
Minuet. Jill and Joyce. The locket. " It means that the waif has found 
a home at last ! " Sisters. The Gypsy again. " Your duty lies with them 
make their lives as happy as you have mine." 

4CT III. "Like Other Girl.s." A five o'clock tea. Anticipations. The 
French teacher again. A lesson in politeness. A nice hot cup of tea. 
Nora's revenge. Apologies. Mademoiselle's confession. " I took it ; it was 
on'y for ze revenge." Forgiveness. " Ihishivg tea." Confessions. From 
grave tc g.iv. An Adamlesis Eden. Superfluous man: a few portraits of 
him. Expl;!iiatioi'.s. The fulfilment of Miriam's prophecy. A mystery 
cleared. ' ': In-, little one I mourned as dead is alive," Our chaperon, 



/ 



Something for " Secret Societies.' 



I 



JOINING THE TINPflNlTES 

OR, PADDY MCFLING'S EXPERIENCE. 

(PART 1.) 

A MOCI^ INITIATION. 

FOK THK AMUSEMENT AND INSTKUCTION OF SECKET SOCIETIES. ADAFTHD TO ALL 

ORDERS, AND CONTAINING NOTHING TO OKFUND ANY 

SECRET ORGANIZATION. 

IBy David Mill, 

Author of " Forced to the War," "Bound by an Oath," "Out of his Sphere," 
" Placer Gold," "The Granger," etc. 

For thirteen male characters and supers. Scenery uniniportai't, the 
Btnge representing the interior of a lodge-room. Costumes, burlesijue regali.",, 
Pl;iys forty-tive minutes. This is an uproarously funny travestie of the foniis 
of initiation, and is just the thing for a lodge-room entertainment. Any number 
«*iC men can assist as members, etc. 

Price, . • . 15 cents. 



By the Author of " A Box of Monkeys." 

The Corner-Lot Chorus- 

A FARCE IN ONE ACT. 

FeR # FEMALE # CHARAGTERS ^ eUUY 
By Grace Livingston Furniss. 

Ab Originally Performed by "The Twelfth -Night Club," at tke 
Lyceum Theatre, New York, ox May 7, 1891. 

Seven female characters who speak, and ten Jury Gins, Costumes, iihxm ; n 
and tasteful. Scenery of little or no importance. Plays about forty inii.ui'S 
This clever little piece, by the author of "A Box of Monkeys," satirizes w , ii 
a two-edged blade a foolish social exclusiveness and the weak side of an);\i. iir 
actors, and with bright and clever performers is a sure success. It aironi.^^ a 
ehance for elegant dressing, if desired, and for telling local hits' . In its original 
psi'formance by profeisioual actresses it was a laughing success. 

Price, ... 83 cents. 



A NEW ENTERTAINMENT FOR LADIES. 



JOLLY JOE'S 
LADY MINSTRELS. 

Selections for the ''Sisters." 

Written, compiled and edited in the sole interest of cheerfulness, from the most 
jovial sources, and arranged with a particular eye to the needs of 

KKMLAIvK NKORO NlINSTREIvS. 

By Mrs. A. M. SILSBEE and Mrs. M. B. HORNE. 

This little book describes the programme recently employed in an actual 
performance of this character, and is offered as a guide to others seeking light on 
this "dark subject." It provides jokes, a stump-speech, a darky play — "Bells 
in the Kitchen," — written for female characters only, and suggests a programme 
of songs. The difficulty which ladies have found in collecting humorous material 
sufficiently refined for their purpose, and the impossibility of procuring an after- 
piece for this sort of entertainment, of which men have heretofore had a monop- 
oly, suggested the publication of this book, which meets both these wants. 

Price 25 Cents. 



A NKW DRAMA. 

HICK'RY FARM. 

A GOMEDY-DRAMA OF NEW ENGLAND LIFE IN TWO AGT8. 

By EDWIN M. STERN. 

Six male, two female characters. A charming delineation of New England 
rural life, presenting a diversity of excellent characters, that of the farmer, 
Ezekiel Fortune, being particularly good. Scenery : a landscape, with small set 
cottage, and a plain room. Costumes of the present time. Time of playing, an 
hour and a half. 

Price 25 Cents. 



For M ale Character s Only. 

Plmtation Bitters, 

A Colored Fantasy in Two Acts. 
By MARY B. HORNE, 

author of 

" Pkof. Baxter's Great Invention," " The Great Moral 

Dime Show," Etc. 

Nine male and eight female characters, all impersonated by men and boys. 
Scene, an easy interior ; costumes, grotesque and easily contrived. This is a 
picture of negro life on the Abercrombie Plantation, in Georgia. It is a very 
humorous presentation of negro life and character, and provides an agreeable 
substitute for tlio hackneyed Negro Minstrel Entertainment. It is connected by 
a thread of narrative, but chiefly consists of a succession of songs and humorous 
Incidents, alfording ample opportunities for the introduction of specialties. An 
excellei.t entertainment for a lodge-room or other "stag" institution. Can be 
played by men and women, if preferred. Very funny and perfectly inoffensive 
for church performance. 



Price 



15 cents. 



For Female Characters. 

8t. Valentine'8 Day. 

A COMEDY IN ONK ACT. 
By ANNIE ELIOT. 

Two female characters. Scenery, unimportant ; costumes modern and every- 
day. This charming little duologue for ladies will instantly recommend itself to 
the best taste in such matters. Its dialogue is witty, ingenious and entertaiinnjj 
and very subtly and sympathetically develops a most interesting story of a love 
affair, Avhich, however, only appears in the third person. The characters of 
Elinor (a woman of thirty) and Letty (scarcely more than a child) are admirably 
contrasted and employed, and are capable of much quiet dramatic effect in 
oapable hands. 

Price 16 centg. 



A NEW COMEDY. 



M Box 




A FARCE IN THREE ACTS. 



BY 

ROSEMARY BAUM. 

Four male and four female characters. Scenes, tv/o interiors, very j^innii . 
Costumes modern. This clever piece is in the light vein that has proven so pi';; 
ular in Miss Grace Furniss' pieces, and while its sentiment is honest and tr u< . ; 
has few serious dramatic moments. Its characters are lively young peop'e mmI 
genial old ones, its story is entertaining and cleverly told, its dialogue is vivaoioii- 
and bright, and its Incidents abmidant, humorous, ingenious and original. Those 
who wish to be amused rather than excited Avill find an admirable means to this 
end in Miss Baum's play. 

Price 15 cents. 



SYNOPSIS: 

ACT. I. Hanging the " Mistletoe." Fred and the Anti-Tobacco League. Tom's 
love affair. A "flame" which must have "no smoke.". Casting her shoe. 
A "slippery" trick. Fred and Phyllis. The dude and the budlet. Miss 
Blucher's bonnet-strings. Signing the pledge. A hitch. "Whose coat is 
this?" The Box OF Cigarettes. Ending in smoke. 

ACT II. Life in a flat. The Oldboys. A long-lost father. Unpleasant truths. 
Tom and Molly. " Aun Ana shan't trample on me ! " Another " American 
Revolution." Anastasia and Araericus. " I still smoke, ma'am." Almost 
an understanding. The Cigarettes again. Still smoky. 

ACT III. Paying Phyllis' bet. Curling irony. Under the mistletoe. A plot 
within a plot. Americus' little deal. The old boy gets gay. Freddy helps. 
Tiddleywinks. Americus landed. An " insult " on the other cheek. Tom 
and Molly. The mistake explained. No more smoke. 



BAKER'S A. B. C. LEAFLETS. 

We have recently added to this series the following monologues; 

Price .... 5 cents each. 

The Face Upon the Floor, As recited by Harry P. Keily. 
A Voyage Around My Pockets. 



A NEW BORDER DRAMA. 




10 GRANDE 



AN ORIGINAL DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. 



By CHARLES TOWNSEND. 

Author of "The Spy of Gettysburg:," "The Woven Web," "Border 
Land," "Broken Fetters," etc., etc. 



Seven male, four feinale cliaraclers. Modern costumes ; Fccncry, 0:10 interior 
and one exterior. Time in playing, two Lours and twenty minutes. 



This is the latest play of Western life, and one of the finest dramas ever 
written by this brilliant and successful author. Its interest is unllay-iiipj, it is 
full of bright, clean fun, and roaring comedy situations alternate av lii thrilling 
and pathetic scenes. Every character is a good one and worthy of the best 
t.ik-nt. This piece can be played in any hall or upon any stage, as there are no 
difficulties in costumes or scenery. Printed directly from the author's acting 
copy, and preceded by a chapter of "Remarks" in which are given, in tlio 
author's own words, special instructions regarding the play, the acting of each 
part, and all necessary details of stage-management. 

Price, ... 25 Cents. 



SVNOPSIS: 



ACT I. The First Day. — Sitting-room at Lawton's. Judge Biggs renders an 
opinion. Casey in doubt. Scgura fails to score. Paul and Retta. Jealousj\ 
The arrival. Mamie and the Judge. Trouble ahead. A thi-eatcned quarrel. 
The proposal. Kef used. "Answer him nothing." The vow. Tableau. 

ACT II. The Second Day. — The lawn near the parade ground. The holiday 
soldier. Johnnie in trouble. An "American aristocrat." Catlwallader 
frightened. Biggs indignant. The Indian outbri ak. Sogura's plan. A 
cunning plot. The marriage certificate. Paul and Retta. Some clever 
aciing. Segura's triumi.h. The quarrel. A broken engnp' nuMit. " Doots 
and saddles ! " Biggs as a guide." " I won't cry." The dep;u luro. Tableau. 

ACT III. The Third Day. — Sitting-room at Lawton's. The ; • : "s watch- 
ers. Retta's sorrow. The new friends. Cadwallader's n:'." •. IWiniie's 
sympathy. "Thanks awfully." Biggs arrives. A JPoeifh:^ r w. Cadwal- 

min.-' ^J'tta's < 



lader's resolution. Segura's cunning.^B^fme^ again.- ^^^ta's confession. 
L.Mving the train, '^[jfe'ffrfsi.a Avife alr^di'." 4JP':^ui in trouble. Retta ex- 
plodes the mine. Panfl in danger. Death af'K6tta. 'Finale. 







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